The Scarf and the Sea
by Grand Delusions
Summary: Although on the surface it appears to be pure childhood RC, a deeper examination will reveal a myriad of metaphors and motifs foreshadowing the events of that occur at the Opera Populare.


Disclaimer: they're not mine

A/N: How fun is winter? Honestly, it's my favorite season of all! You can probably tell that in most of my stories, and this one is no exception. I started this when the cold weather finally rolled into town. It's short, it's sweet.

Although on the surface it appears to be pure childhood R/C, a deeper examination will reveal a myriad of metaphors and motifs foreshadowing the events of that occur at the Opera Populare. Although I guess it really is R/C, I personally don't consider it such. After all, they're kids! This is completely pre-Erik, and I've always had a soft spot for the golden boy—so flames will not be allowed.

Hurray for being an English minor with no skill with grammar! I still need a beta, and NorthAngel27, I can't find your email anywhere. 10 points to whoever names my favorite metaphor used in this piece. Please read and review!

_**The Scarf and the Sea**_

The sea churned wildly beneath the grey blanket of clouds. The silver waves rose and crumbled in a sporadic dance, its dangerous beauty both captivating and horrifying to the young girl. Waves assaulted the rocky coast in a constant battle, spraying all who ventured near while a distant bird cried to the heavens.

The pair walked along the rocks and waves, clinging to each other as if that small bit of contact would stay the wild wind that roared around them. The smaller one, a girl, battled her hair as it flew in every direction. She drew her dark curls from her face and turned to gaze out on the wild winter sea.

"I wonder why the sea is so restless today. It's almost as if we've made him angry."

"Don't be silly, Christine," her companion laughed. "The sea doesn't have feelings, it isn't human."

She glanced over at her friend. At twelve, he already had the beginnings of being a very handsome man. Raoul de Changy had been her constant companion and friend whenever his family was on holiday to the coast. Though his older brother disapproved of his friendship to someone of such low standing, Raoul suffered his brother's wrath constantly to be near his Christine.

"Besides," he added, "even if the sea is angry, I hardly expect it's anything we've done."

"Maybe he's mad that we're here."

"Christine, honestly! It's a beach—we have as much right to be here as anyone. And more too, for this land belongs to my family!" He said, chiding her for her imagination. Raoul constantly had to bring her back to reality when her imagination took hold.

"I'm sorry, Raoul. It was silly of me."

"Think nothing of it, Little Lotte." He grinned at her with his handsome Changy smile. She felt herself blush the shade of her scarf—the blush she wore every time he looked at her that way, the blush she had when he told her they would always be together and one day he would marry her.

In silent agreement, they turned towards her house. Hands knocked against each other awkwardly as they both whipped their heads in opposing directions. Pulling her hands away, Christine fumbled with the tassels of her scarf, willing the cold in her hands to counteract the rising heat in her cheeks. Suddenly a large gust of wind ran along the coast, throwing the mass of curls. Fighting to keep them down, Christine suddenly realized something was missing.

"Christine, you're scarf!" Raoul exclaimed as she turned to watch the scarf dance upon the wind above the ocean. Christie watched in horror as her scarf, the last remnant of her mother floated farther from her grasp. At once the sea raised up his hands to snatch the scarf from the air. The red ribbon continued its dance upon the waves and the sky turned dark.

Christine bit back the tears and shut her eyes to the site. It was gone. Just like that, in a moment, something so precious had vanished and she would never be the same in its absence.

"Don't worry, Christine," Raoul assured her. "I'll see to your scarf."

"Raoul, don't!" she screamed hysterically as she realized his meaning.

But her words were lost on him. With a heroic flourish, he threw off his coat, depositing it in her hands. Thunder clapped loudly as he ran into the surf, rain pelting down, soaking him before the sea was able.

Sprinting into the ocean, the waves crashed against him, forcing him back before he charged forward once more. Raoul was no more than knee deep when the waves decided to claim him, and rushed him out away from shore.

Alarmed, she watched as he was tossed about by the waves. More than once, the tide threw him towards the coastline, where he came perilously close to crashing against the sharp rocks.

Lightning struck the horizon and thunder applauded loudly as Raoul disappeared from the surface. Christine screamed in horror. The surf sprayed and the waves rose.

Abruptly the sea burst from his prison, spilling onto shore, and after depositing the young Vicomte at her feet, shrank back into its confines. She stood in shock, staring at his motionless body. Was he dead?

She heard a moan, but couldn't tell if it was from Raoul or the ocean, which had unexpectedly turned placid. Standing in the pouring rain, Christine feared she would have the unhappy news of telling the Changy family about the death of yet another relative. She was still contemplating this unhappy alternative, as Raoul pushed himself from the ground.

Triumphantly he turned towards her and presented her with the red scarf. He kneeled and held the scarf as if it were some sacred treasure to be presented to a queen. Torn and ripped from the waves and rocks, dripping wet, it scarcely resembled her red scarf. The sea had taken it away on a gust of wind and had claimed the treasure as its own. She wondered vaguely if that was why the sea was angry as she stuffed the rag into her pocket

"Come," Raoul spoke, drawing her close as they turned towards home, "this weather isn't healthy for you."

The next morning, Christine stood on the cliff and flung the tattered rag into the abyss, hoping the meager offering could appease the sea and sooth her conscious.

But the sea would not have her scarf.

She stared at the ocean, aghast at his refusal to accept her gift. Just yesterday, the waves carried the scarf away, holding the red above the depths in a hypnotic dance. But the glassy surface remained emotionless and refused to accept her offering. Christine watched as the scarf quietly descended into the depths and disappeared from view. And, casting a fleeting glance back towards the sea, turned and walked towards home beneath the pale grey winter sky.


End file.
